


Magic

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Cultural Differences, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Melvin is learning ways of Noctis, and one of the things he decides to do is to listen to the Prince delivering a speech.





	Magic

Melvin sighs and adjusts the collar of his tunic. Some of his kindred keep to the dark gray—but they mostly stay at the Palace, and while Melvin understands the sentiment—though not of those who keep the Abundance pin—he discovered early on that a more free-flowing tunic and wide pants, and sandals instead of boots are preferable when you are under a constant threat of getting a handful of sand under your collar. Getting sand out of the wires is a headache, that’s for sure.

But for all the advantages of the traditional Noctian costume (they have been dressing like this for decades, surely they know what they are doing), Melvin feels… exposed. He has to consciously prevent himself from looking down and adjusting his clothes all the time. It’s not the lack of armor or wires—it’s… Well, he admits, it is the lack of armor. Not for protection, but for the support and constraints it gave him. He spent three days being aware only of how shallow and cautious his breathing used to be, before… all this.

He is very aware of his breathing these days, and not only for the change in his clothing.

To not dress in the dark gray makes sense politically, too: it is, after all, a military uniform, even though adjusted for their specific purpose—but they are not soldiers anymore (and everyone has to decide what they _are_ for themself; Melvin thinks about it a lot). And to present himself like one would be unwise for Melvin, since he’s an envoy between the rogue Abundancean technomancers and Noctis (“Melvin, since you spend so much time with the Prince, maybe you could represent us officially?”. Oh Zach…)

There is plenty of politics these days for Melvin. He feels like he’s back at the classroom again, rather distracted by Con and Ian’s antics (he was so young and looked up to his older brothers and they always managed to talk him into joining them in their escapades).

He has to study Noctis. He feels like he hasn’t studied so much since… long time ago. And all the politics— oh, you should never bother, the Army officers instructing them always said. Never bother. You get your orders, you do what you are told to do—and let Mother Abundance take care of the rest.

Yes, Mother Abundance took care of them, and, in the words of their good Amelia, _fuck that care_.

(He can hear the Prince’s “Language!” so clearly in his head; but what can he do? He is—was—a soldier all his life.)

There is no Abundance for them now, not if Melvin, Zach and all of them have a say in it—and Melvin has to take care of them, because Ian and Con are still recovering from their retreat, Zachariah is too busy trying to stop the ASC and to continue their research (while they are here, having pushed their primary, most sacred duty onto the boy and his friends— Melvin drops that thought).

It’s not that Melvin never studied how things are in Abundance—he simply never paid attention to them. He knew he would never get out of the Source, knew that all decisions concerning his own life, down to the most private things, were out of his hands—and he had more important things to study. How to not be killed by his own powers, for example.

Still, Melvin _has_ a basic knowledge of how things work in Abundance, politically and otherwise—now, it seems, only adding to that knowledge, for all the late-night planning Zachariah does with his gang and Ian and Con, devising a clever way of besetting Viktor from all sides.

Noctis remains Melvin’s responsibility—and Noctis is… Noctis is something else entirely.

The combination of tradition and change is not foreign to Melvin—but it’s not the thing that baffles and fascinates him.

Noctis _shouldn’t work._

Melvin is not a politician and not a political expert, but he has enough practical mind to realize that Noctis shouldn’t work at all. A system, the core foundation of which is _trust_ —with no other conditions—shouldn’t work.

And yet it _does_.

He supposes he will never quite understand all the intricacies of the powers at play, old and new alliances, the fact that _everyone_ on the Council seems to know everyone else (and that’s _hundreds_ of people, since most of the population of Noctis is on the Council), which, honestly, shouldn’t be possible, especially considering that most Noctians don’t even have caste names or family names; the strange balance of power between the _tangata hau_ —the sandsail merchants,—the _tangata kohatu_ (he is not even sure he’s not butchering it, but Noctians are ever patient)—the ostrich-riders,—the sandsingers, the _traders_ as opposed to merchants, the tattoo masters, the wardens of the wind turbines, the Palatial guard, the dockers, etc., etc. All of them are the Council. All of them are Noctis.

Noctis listens. Noctis decides.

The Prince—their _Doxe_ , as they call the position—is as constrained as the Great Master of Melvin’s Order—and yet free as the plains of Mars (there are many metaphors and sayings Noctians have about the plains, the winds, the storms, the stars, salt of the sky; endless poetry born out of long nights and days with the whole world all around you, Melvin supposes).

Dandolo tells him it is not required of him to learn _all_ of that, certainly not in a short period of time… But the truth is, Melvin wants to. It is a thirst for knowledge he thought had been hollowed out of him decades ago. Most of the nights end up with a massive headache, true—and yet he can’t get enough.

All his life he spent in a cage, and when that cage was broken, he found himself scared, being untethered and unchained—but here, he is learning that there is merit to being unconstrained. To breathing with his whole chest, to not wearing his uniform.

To asking questions without fear of repercussions.

He is drunk on it. He is in love.

Which, he supposes, is part of the problem.

His kindred tease him about it endlessly, in a needly, good-natured way that only family can use.

He is too old for this—but, looking at Ian and Con, looking at Sean, looking at the whole of his battered, tortured family, he feels that maybe that’s just another lie he’s telling himself.

Perhaps he should feel bad for falling in love with Noctis like he never fell for Ophir. But the lack of shame is… exhilarating. _Electrifying_.

Falling in love with Dandolo, however… He doesn’t know what to think about _that_.

It feels strange to think about it that way, but all evidence and early hours of the morning spent analyzing it point out to this strange thing. But the revelation feels… unrevelatory, because Melvin doesn’t know what to do with it.

He leaves it be.

He realizes he’s entirely lost in thought when a guard touches his shoulder carefully, and calls his name seemingly for the dozenth time, “ _Corvo_? You asked to notify you when the Council meeting was about to start.”

Melvin runs a hand through his hair, front to back, and smiles. “Yes. I’m sorry, my mind was somewhere else. Are you sure I can attend it?”

The guard gives him a weird look, though Melvin can’t see half of their face due to the headscarf-veil. “Of course. Why not? Anyone can attend it, sworn or not. But you should hurry, or there won’t be any space left even to hang from the girders: the Prince will be debating.”

He nods, and the guard hastens away. _Corvo_. Dandolo must have instructed that he prefers only his kin calling him “Master Melvin” (and even then, it’s only Zach who does that, out of habit) and doesn’t want to be called “Major”—and so a moniker given by the Prince in private has turned into a name. He feels… proud, and maybe it is selfish of him to take it as a sign of respect, but such monikers are a big part of Noctis, and so he accepts it with a tightening in his heart.

He checks his clothes again, cursing himself silently for it, and goes to the Caravanserail. Noctis is so different from Ophir, even the winding ways of the Slums can’t compare—and he supposes the indignity of being lost and having to ask for directions is what keeps some of his kindred close to the Palace, though Melvin has discovered himself that the Palace is _more_ confusing, and Noctians themselves are not ashamed to admit that even they get lost in it; they say only the Prince himself knows all of the Palace.

They tell a lot of tales about their Prince, half of which Melvin is sure are an exaggeration and the other half are full-on meiosis, because, getting to know Dandolo better, he is certain Dandolo does—and has done—things that would be difficult to believe in and which are, nonetheless, very real.

Melvin makes his way to the Caravanserail and sees from afar that the guard was right: the crowd is all but hanging from the upper levels. It feels like the whole of Noctis is here—which would be right, of course, because Noctis _is_ the Council, for the most part, and the Council _can_ gather in full—but they rarely do. Apparently, their Prince delivering his point is worth gathering.

The night is full of light wind that fills Noctis with the gentle tinkling of chimes—a sound Melvin has come to enjoy greatly. But even the wind doesn’t help with the heat of so many bodies gathered together. The atmosphere is not the uptight stiffness Melvin witnessed those couple of times he attended the Assembly back in Ophir (he doesn’t think _“home”_ , and the lack of shame that this, too, brings, is yet another small victory). He imagines the Carnival that Dandolo has spoken to him about several times already is something like this.

The air is charged. Melvin rubs the tips of his fingers together and smiles.

He has no doubt Dandolo would have found a way to get to a vantage point over all this throng: his climbing skill is one of the things that make Melvin believe in the strangest tales people tell about him—and this particular skill makes Melvin vaguely nauseous, simply from the heights Dandolo has no problem scaling. But of course, Dandolo will be the center of attention (much as he doesn’t like to be), and Melvin is left finding a place for himself.

Surprisingly, people recognize him and make space for him. Up here, five levels above the marketplace, he gets to the banisters (there are areas of Noctis where they don’t _bother_ with banisters or railings or anything at all; Melvin doesn’t even look at the those places) and glances down.

Noctis is _brilliant_.

It is cheerful and aromatic, and the creaking of wind turbines and singing of chimes, the murmurs and laughter of the crowd—all of it creates a din that is different from Ophir. The voice of Noctis.

The Palace is the gem, illuminated by many lamps, blue and gold and green, banners and patterned coverings, small colorful flags hung everywhere, small tiles of the main staircase glinting the lights back, over and over. Where the tiles are free of people, of course.

It is the way important things are conducted here: right on the stairs of the Palace, and all over the Caravanserail—simply because it is the place that can admit the most people. Not behind closed doors, after which the Assembly would simply inform the people over the radio about the Assembly’s decision; not even inside the Palace—out in the open, where everyone can speak up.

It shouldn’t _work_.

But it does.

Usually, the first landing is reserved for the main speakers—and Dandolo is already there. Melvin leans forward, the drop of five levels forgotten for the moment.

He can’t help himself.

It’s not that Dandolo carries himself any differently from other merchants. It’s not that he dresses any differently or… Or anything.

Melvin doesn’t know. He just…

He doesn’t know.

But he wants to find out. Something. _Everything_.

A ripple goes through the throng, the whole seven levels up from the ground, the stairs packed with people suddenly simply… not going quieter than before, exactly, but all their attention shifting. To Dandolo.

Melvin reminds himself to breathe and to not lean over the banisters too much.

“ _Ociolo!_ ” Dandolo addresses them, spreading his arms. It is such a handsome gesture, and he turns around, and Melvin is _certain_ he looks at everyone. Can see everyone. “My friends!” Dandolo looks up at the upper levels, too, and Melvin can swear he feels that gaze on himself personally. His cheeks grow hot, and it’s simply… The warm night. The gathering.

He listens.

“I have asked you to assemble tonight to discuss an issue of importance. The Mutant Valley might need our help, more than ever, and I ask you to hear me out, Noctis, and make your decision.”

“Noctis listens!” someone says the formula.

Noctis listens.

Dandolo drops his hands. And starts his piece.

And Melvin zones out.

Long time ago, people believed in magic. They still do! The world is a strange place, and some seek refuge in less complex explanations—and others seek refuge in explanations so labyrinthine one must be raised with them to fully understand them. Superstitions are a refuge, too, and by the Shadow, so many people consider technomancy either devilish or divine, and while Melvin and his kindred have their own brushes with something beyond the evidence that their senses and mind provide, this…

This, is _magic_.

Never mind that he doesn’t understand some words Dandolo says—other words touch upon his mind and are gone before he grasps their meaning, even if he _does_ know them.

It is simply…

He doesn’t know what to call it.

A part of him knows it’s the voice, the tone, the inflection. The way the sound carries with ease, penetrating the winding passages of the city. It is the tiles of the stairs, the whole of Palace above the stairs acting as a resonator. It is the spaces, the air, the lights…

It’s a thrall.

Dandolo moves, gestures, turns, throws looks, and his words are not a song, but close to it. The spilled salt of stars.

At some point Melvin pushes himself off the banisters, because he seriously considers starting a new religion, Dandolo its prophet. He squeezes through the press of people, hides behind a column of rock, shielding himself from that voice, leans on the warm stone and closes his eyes. Reminds himself to breathe. Wipes his hands on his tunic.

By the Shadow.

By the Shadow, he is doomed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure how a small character piece has turned into 2,5k love letter to Noctis and these two idiots-in-love.
> 
> Listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBO5aO6iJlk) and try to tell me you don't zone out either (it's the same VA as Dandolo).


End file.
